He’d rehearsed the cry as many times as he had practiced his thirty-second run.
Competition. Winning. Bringing glory to your countrymen…
Now, Yuri knelt and unzipped his sports bag. He began slipping the detonating caps into the explosives inside and rigging them to the push button detonator. Sprinting full out from the security fence to the stadium with the bomb armed was, as Gregor had pointed out, not a good idea.
“What was it?” Ch’ao Yuan demanded, speaking into his secure cell phone.
“We aren’t sure, sir.”
“Well, somebody is sure,” Ch’ao snapped.
Because that somebody, from the public liaison office, had gone on the public address system to tell the 85,000 people in the stadium that there was no risk. It was a technical problem and it had been resolved.
Yet no one had called Ch’ao to tell him anything.
One of his underlings, a man who spoke Mandarin as if he’d been raised in Canton, was continuing. “We’ve checked with the state power company. We can’t say for certain, sir. The infrastructure…you know. This has happened before. Overuse of electricity.”
“So you don’t know if it was a bomb or it was the half-million extra people in the city turning on their air-conditioning.”
“We’re looking now. There’s a team there, examining the residue. They’ll know soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very soon.”
Ch’ao slammed the phone shut.
Very soon…
He was about to make another call when a man walked into his office. Ch’ao rose. He said respectfully, “Mr. Liu.”
The man, a senior official from internal security in Beijing, nodded. “I’m on my way to the stadium, Yuan.”
Ch’ao noted the dismissive use of his first name.
“Have you heard?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
Liu, a long face and bristly hair, looked perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“About the explosion, I assume. Nothing. The men are still searching the relay station. It will be—”
“No, no, no.” The man’s expression was explosive. He gestured broadly with his hands. “We have our answer.”
“Answer.”
“Yes. I have my people there now. And they found Uyghur independence posters. The terrorist was on his way to the stadium when we found him on a tip. The bomb detonated prematurely as he was being arrested.”
“Uyghur?” This made some sense. Still, Ch’ao added, “I wasn’t told.”
“Well, we’re not making the information widely available as yet. We think he was going to drive the car into the crowd at the entrance. But he saw the police and detonated the bomb where it was. Or the system malfunctioned.”
“Or perhaps there was some gunfire.” Ch’ao was ever vigilant about being respectful. But he was furious at this peremptory disposition of the case. Furious, too, that, whatever the cause of the explosion, there was no witness to interrogate. And everyone knew the military security forces were quick to pull the trigger.
But Liu said calmly, “There were no shots.” He lowered his voice. “If the mechanism was constructed here, a malfunction is the most likely explanation.” He actually smiled. “So the matter is disposed of.”
“Disposed of?”
“It’s clear what happened.”
“But this could be part of a broader conspiracy.”
“When do the Uyghurs have broad conspiracies? They are always one man, one bomb, one bus. No conspiracy, Yuan.”
“We have to investigate. Find out where the explosives came from. Where the car came from. The informant said the targets were the Russians or the Americans. There was no mention of the Uyghurs.”
“Then the informant was wrong. Obviously.”
Before thinking, Ch’ao blurted, “We must postpone the games.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Until we find out more.”
“Postpone the games? Are you a madman, Yuan? We were presented with a threat. We have met that threat. It is no longer a threat.” Liu often spoke as if he were reading from old-time propaganda.
“You’re satisfied that there’s no risk, sir?”
“The backup generators are working, are they not?”
“Yessir.”
“All the security is in place and no one was admitted through the metal detectors until the power resumed, correct?”
“Yessir. Though the systems were down for a full thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds,” Liu mused. “What can happen in that time?”
In this age, 85,000 people can die, Ch’ao thought. But he could see Liu was not pleased with his attitude. He remained silent.
“Well, there we are. If something else turns up, we will have to consider it. For now the explosion was infrastructure. This evening we will announce the bombing was the result of the Uyghur movement. We’ll say that there was no intent to harm anyone; the explosion was meant to be an inconvenience…” Liu’s eyes grew focused and dark. “And you will say nothing for the time being except infrastructure. An overloaded electrical system. After all, we still have a few things left to blame the Chairman for.”
There was a fortuitous development, Yuri noted, his bag over his shoulder, as he trooped down the endless steps toward the field.
He observed a number of American athletes were standing near the Russians, chatting and laughing.
This was perfect. The Americans had offered only lip service to the Chechen plight, being far more interested in foreign trade with Russia. In fact, back in Grozny, planning the attack, Gregor told him, they’d considered targeting Americans, too. But a dual attack was considered too difficult.
But now, Yuri was thrilled to see, he would take a number of the citizens of both countries to the grave with him.
He nodded at a guard, who gave the most perfunctory of glances at his pass and motioned him on.
Yuri stepped onto the Olympic field and made his way toward the two teams.
In his mind was a vision of the second ribbon.
Standing on the grass grounds of the Olympic field, Billy Savitch looked around him. The field had been impressive when he’d seen it upon arrival. It was even more so now.
He was near a group of American athletes. He nodded greetings.
They gave him thumbs-up, high-fives.
I’m actually on the field, he reflected. The first day of the games.
And then recalled, Don’t screw up.
I’ll try.
No, trying is what losers do.
I won’t screw up.
The Americans were next to a large group of Russians. Most of the team, it seemed. They were waiting to have their picture taken by a Chinese photographer. There was also a video crew here and an interpreter; they were doing interviews with certain athletes.
Billy stayed close to the Americans, many of whom were walking over to their Russian competitors and shaking hands. Wishing them good luck.
Yet never shucking that certain ruthlessness of eye.
He wondered if he, too, looked ruthless.
He heard the announcer repeat that the power failure had been due to a technical problem. The evasive language of all governments. They apologized for the inconvenience.
A Russian nodded to him and said to a lean U.S. athlete nearby, “What’s your event, my friend?”
“I’m a sprinter,” the American said. “Hundred meters is my main event.”
“A sprinter?” The Russian looked at him with a gaze of wistfulness. “I envy that. You are a hawk. Me, a plodding ostrich! I run long distances. When do you compete?”
“In an hour.”
“You must be impatient.”
“Yeah, some. But this isn’t about me. It’s about the team.”
The Russian laughed. “Spoken like a good Communist.”